


Under a Waning Moon

by Kass



Category: Iron Chef (RPS), RPS
Genre: Canadian Shack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he saw me, his face took on an almost comical expression of startlement. "Hattori-san!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under a Waning Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Great Canadian Shack challenge.

The afternoon was waning when I arrived: cold, pale light tinting the far brown hills purple. The shack stood alone, and for a moment I doubted I had come to the right place--but this was where my sources had led me. This had to be it.

The door was unlocked; I let myself in, placed my snowy boots neatly by the door, added wood to the woodstove and waited. The floor, at least, was neatly-swept, and sitting in seisa helped to warm my feet.

It wasn't long before the door opened, the man I sought nearly blocking the outside air as he shouldered his way in. He had to enter sideways because his parka was so puffy.

When he saw me, his face took on an almost comical expression of startlement. "Hattori-san!"

"Always a pleasure," I said, trying for dry humor. It didn't work: his downcast eyes, although surprised by my presence, didn't hold their usual spark.

"How did you find me?" Removing his coat, placing a bucket of snow on the stove to melt--for tea, I hoped, or maybe miso.

"The dishwasher at Nobu."

"That bastard." His voice was without rancour, but it made me shiver. "They weren't supposed to tell."

"He said you were collecting morels."

Morimoto smiled grimly. "Which you believed...?"

"Not for a second. It's the dead of winter, Masaharu."

If he noticed my unusual use of his first name, he didn't show it.

There was silence. I couldn't help noting the healthy pink of his cheeks, the way his hair--uncut for some weeks now--threatened to almost curl.

We sat in silence. Perhaps his time away had taught him patience, but it galled me to see him so still. Where was his trademark energy? Finally I couldn't stand waiting for him to respond; I spoke out of turn.

"You have to come back."

He appeared to be studying the pattern of cracks in the floor. "After that defeat?"

"The other chefs note your absence."

"What are they preparing?"

Was that a hint of life in his voice at the suggestion of food, or was I imagining? I recalled Kobe-san's most recent offering, a stalk of asparagus with a single drop of hollandaise sauce decorating its tip, but I said nothing.

Morimoto shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I am staying here."

"You are missed," I said, finally, desperate.

He looked up, sharply. The intensity of his near-whisper cut to my heart. "Does Kaga speak of me?"

Forget Kaga, I wanted to shout. Has he ever noted the wild succulence of your dishes? Is he the one who came all the way to Canada to find you? Are you blind?

But I said nothing.

Outside the snow continued to fall, like bonito flakes perfectly scattered under a waning moon.


End file.
